ex parte
by broken.ningyo
Summary: Three years after the Ritual, Vainqueur showed signs of relapse into desertification. Tensions flared amongst the fragile Alliance superpowers, as time began to run out for both the continent and the people living on it. Even as the fate of a key person to the Ritual remained a mystery, a homesick foreigner's journey in Vainqueur was set to influence the course of true history...
1. Chapter 1

n years after my hiatus from here, just figured I should also post my RH fic here on top of tumblr and AO3. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

"What? Where is this?" the shopkeeper inquired incredulously at the young man's question. "This is Alistel, boy. Look around you. Ain't it obvious?"

The said young man turned about and peeked out the shop window. Everything was alien to him; from the metallic structures, to the unbelievable stench of burning coal hanging constantly in the air.

"Sorry. I'm kind of lost," he said matter-of-factly. The shopkeeper was not the first that he crossed in the past few days; almost every other person he had met exclaimed the same thing. It was safe to assume that this was one of the larger capitals of this... Wherever this was.

The elder man shook his head, throwing a half-torn map at the lost youth. "Take it," the merchant huffed, "it's unsaleable anyway." Nodding his thanks, the youth shuffled out of the shop.

This was the boring journey of Dullahan; just a simple man trying to find his way home.

* * *

Asking for directions afterwards was much easier, now that he had a name to tag the city with. Luckily for him, it would seem that Alistellans shared the same language as he did; he hadn't had too much of a trouble communicating thus far.

Already from a glance, he could identify a few technological wonders within the city walls- artificial lighting that _works_, warm indoors despite the frigid weather and high elevation, and last but not least, the existence of tools that can run on its' own, not powered by man.

He paused, slightly hesitant upon reaching his destination- the tavern. He had his doubts as to whether he will be able to get any useful information here, but taverns were always worth a try.

There was another concern he had in mind that unfortunately, rang dead true for him two moments after he first thought about it.

His coins were worthless. Nevermind getting lost, it seemed as if the possibility of getting drunk was also now beyond his capabilities.

The tavernmaster scowled visibly, looking at the mint with incredulity. After all, no tradesmen liked seeing currencies that were not known to them.

Dullahan didn't blame him, but he hadn't been expected to be directed straight to the door at the first signs of not having coins on hand. Across the room, he could see two burly men ducking in- looking ready to sort things out if he caused any trouble. ... Not that he would, of course.

"... It's been a pleasure regardless, sir," the blonde said, pulling as much diplomacy as he could in his tone even as he headed out. The small commotion was attracting attention- and the last thing Dullahan needed was further embarrassment. _Guess the tavern's out_, he sighed inwardly.

He didn't manage to get out of the premise before something tripped across his feet, landing face-first. "Owww," the thing groaned on the floor, and it was only then Dullahan realised it was a boy in ill-fitting clothes. Instinctively, he kneeled to offer a hand to the poor sap. "Sorry, I didn't see you-"

"MARCO! You_ bastard-_" there was a flurry of movements, and years of experience told Dullahan he was about to get punched in the face. He willed for all for his right cheeks to thicken and soften the impact, but the punch actually didn't come. He hadn't realised he had been squinting, either, until he opened his eyes to meet the potential assailant's.

There was a long pause before both the boy and the lady- the one that threatened violence- realised that they were staring at him. "... In case you didn't hear me,_ madam_, I apologised to your son," Dullahan noted, his dissatisfaction showing.

The weird part was mostly on how the woman actually pulled her punch mid-stride- that meant she was trained. Actually, judging from bits and pieces of their padded armour, it was safe to write them off as mercenaries.

It got weirder after that, when the boy sat up and appraised him, as if he was an item on display. As did the woman. _"... Stocke?"_ the woman breathed, a tone unbecoming of her earlier behaviour... And dressing, for that matter.

"No, I don't have any stocks for sale." Dullahan raised himself to his full height, towering over both of them. The boy didn't seem to suffer any injuries- and he felt no obligation to stay any further.

"No, _wait,_ uh, sorry about that, I was kinda pissed you pushed my friend down, you know? And I'm _not_ his mother," the woman exploded into a chatterbox, as if eager to get him to stay. Dullahan raised an eyebrow. Now _that_ is what he called drastic change in personality. He hadn't realised that the woman already had a tightening grip on his arm.

"Raynie! He's not-" "I _know_," the lady snapped, shaking her head- and her long, dark ponytail with it. "Look, uh, I actually overheard you saying you needed a drink, so like, you're broke, right? We'll treat yah."

Dullahan just stared at the duo, trying to assess the incredulity of the situation. How many birds in one stone did he get from this? He didn't bother to count. "... Sure?" He was understandably suspicious, but it was a more interesting development than trying any other alternatives at the moment.

And if anything, he could probably get a good quantity (he wouldn't count on quality) of information from lady chatterbox- Raynie, was it?- on _where_ exactly this was.


	2. Chapter 2

The awkward silence lingered on at the table of three, located at the corner furthest from the fireplace.

They had the troublesome introductions done; it went along the lines of name, job, and rank (they were in the _military?_ and _captains_ to boot?). He fed them what he always did to acquaintances- his pseudonym, he's a nobody, he's just minding his own business. They seemed to take it just fine, though their faces said otherwise.

There was something very unsettling about the way they stared at him; but that was not his immediate concern.

"... So as you know, I'm lost. I need your help to tell me more about Alistel." _A church, a library, anything._ Marco perked up. "In what way, Mr. Dullahan? Everyone in the continent knows about Alistel."

_Yeah, except for me, apparently._

"So this is a continent? How large are we speaking of? Population?"

Raynie's brows furrowed in confusion. "Hold on a mo. Are you saying that you don't know _Vainqueur?"_

Dullahan shook his head in earnest. "I'm trying to find a way home. Here," he offered the duo two coins- two of different nations, having picked them up from his travels. Granted, the only thing he had on him right now was a bloody satchel and some useless money; he'll have to fix that later.

He was hoping for either of them to at least recognise the heraldry minted on them; but they shook their head. No luck. Defeated, Dullahan leaned back against his weathered chair, the legs creaking under his weight. "Well, I suppose we can give you a general rundown," Raynie offered, and Dullahan nodded; might as well get the most out of his stay here.

The more he knew about this continent, the better.

* * *

The year was apparently 154, which was three years into a 50-year peace treaty signed by the continent's superpowers: Granorg, Alistel, Cygnus, Forga, and Celestia. From Raynie's and Marco's explanation, the peace treaty was signed for the purpose of a joint effort in dealing with the rampaging problem of limited nourishing soil and desertification, where previously, the matter was to be resolved by war. The peace treaty was a feat in itself, seeing how it entailed international and interracial cooperation.

Relations between the allied nations, however, was tense. There was much debate to the Granorgnites' sealed-lips policy. Desertification was apparently advancing rapidly until a few months before the peace treaty was signed, when the phenomenon seemingly grinded to a stop, and Granorg apparently had the answers to it- but was unyielding in releasing information on the matter; and that hindered bona fide negotiations, especially against their previous arch-nemesis, the nation of Alistel.

The two also seemed awfully dodgy about the topic, however. Dullahan decided not to press on, and picked a different subject matter instead.

The sorcery that Alistel ran on stemmed from an ore by the name of thaumatech; it was the source of power for all the automatons that Dullahan had seen. The fact that ores mined from the earth could yield such otherworldly benefits was the first major indication that he _really_ did not belong here.

"Which one is a coastal city? There's bound to be ships to other continents," Dullahan asked, laying out the torn map that he had been reviewing as the duo gave their summarised history lesson.

"I don't think we've ever found another continent, at least, none of us knows," Raynie said as she rapped on the table thoughtfully. "If we did, most would've decided get away from the dying continent already. But we're still here."

"If you need to know more about this, though, you could probably pay a visit to Granorg," Marco's fingers tapped at the western part of the continent on the map, before tracing a route from Alistel- going through a mountainous range, past a border checkpoint, and traversing through a steppe. Seemed reasonable on horseback.

"I suppose that's where I should head to next. I would thank you for your help, but I have nothing to offer in return," Dullahan started, but was cut off by Marco. "It's alright, Mr. Dullahan," the short captain said, "if anything, talking to you really helped us to calm our minds."

There was a painful silence that followed. The woman had stopped her binge drinking activities entirely. ... That explained their earlier behaviour, at least.

"... Did I remind you of a casualty of war? If so, I apologise," the blonde offered, his tone low, and tipped his cloth bandana slightly in respect. ... Not sure if the gesture meant anything in Alistel, however.

"Stocke is _not_ dead!" Raynie roared, smashing the mug Dullahan hadn't realised she was holding- its' contents empty- onto the table. Raising herself from her seat, the woman stormed out of the tavern. Marco, giving an apologetic look to Dullahan and the rest of the eyes on them across the room, left enough coins on the table for the broken mug, and surprisingly, some money for him to purchase essentials. The lost traveler watched the stout fellow leave, chasing after his female companion.

Whoever it was, Dullahan raised his mug for a toast to Stocke- the man whose reputation with his mates just earned a stranger a roof to stay under for the night.


	3. Chapter 3

By far the most disturbing thing he had encountered thus far was the prices of food.

Items of war were unsurprisingly in abundance and oversupplied in times of peace, and the imbalance of the market could be seen focused in items of more dire needs- namely fuel. But none of them could compare to the prices of wheat and clean water.

It wasn't easy looking for a source of income in Alistel, either; he had loads of competition. War veterans were also prowling the cities, their experience in violence urging them to harrass unwilling civilians, as was the norm in times of peace. Most of them were still enlisted with the Alistellan army; which meant that the generals were either shorthanded with their disciplinary committee, or just couldn't bother. Dullahan suspected it not as the latter.

Of the few odd-jobs he did receive payment from subcontracting to the military, it was, unsurprisingly, requests for forage of medicinal plants from nearby hills. The military hospitallers were sensible for asking external help, if not slightly desperate.

His encounters in the hills did not impress him, however; because the various races were not the only ones having to deal with the desertification. Already, he encountered various demonic fowls, looking ready to peck at his corpse for food. And demonic fowls were _not_ a feature that he remembered seeing in his life, ever.

Against his better judgement, Dullahan gave up on trying to stock on full rations for the trip - he'll have to make do partially off the land. That, and none of the local stables seemed willing to part with a palfrey.

Which meant that he had to travel on foot.

* * *

It took him almost an eternity to reach the peaks of Lazvil Hill, which surprised even himself. While he didn't pride himself in his mountaineering skills, he admitted that he was severely out of practice on traversing through natural terrain without his horse.

That wasn't his only problem, either- there were aggressives rampant _everywhere._

Already he made two close encounters with monsters, and once against a group of four midget, rat-faced bandits. For once, he was very glad he hadn't had a ride- if not, it would've been dead during the face-off.

Luckily for him, however, the bandits did not put up much of a resistance... And they did leave behind a healthy supply of reed arrows. Dullahan gladly took possession of them.

Night had already fallen, and the blonde decided not to make a fire, eating plucked fruits in the cold, even as he scrutinised the map and planning his route for tomorrow. His campsite gave him a clear view of the west side of the continent, stretching almost towards the horizon line. He would've enjoyed the view more, if he hadn't been struck by a larger, pending problem.

Stretched below the cliffs of his campsite was a desert.

So the map was not only torn, it was also outdated. It clearly showed that there were some ways to go downhill before signs of the desert begins, slightly before the border checkpoint (aptly named the Sand Fortress, possibly from its' wartime heritage). That would mean there would be nothing for him to forage, all the way up to the checkpoint; and based on the estimated distance he travelled today, he won't be reaching the checkpoint for another two days.

_creak_

Breaking the quiet rhythm of the night winds, Dullahan warily turned towards the source.

It was one of the many trees that populated the hills, and this one was dangerously rooted at the edge of the cliff. The trunk was twice his own size, but the roots held; and possibly did for many years. In an attempt to right itself, the trunk grew upwards at an awkward angle towards the sky, and away from the menace of the cliff.

There was a subtle hint of running sand in the winds, but Dullahan couldn't identify the source. It soon became apparent, however, that the tree in question was spilling sand. The leaves shrank slowly, but surely, before turning into sand entirely; leaving behind the empty husk of a trunk, the symbol of life, dried and dead.

And the entire trunk collapsed on itself, tumbling over the cliff edge, carrying part of the cliff with it.

Dullahan stopped eating, and prepared to walk through the night; he had just lost his appetite.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time he reached the border checkpoint, he was out of both rations and liquids. He was tired, parched, and hungry.

Dullahan was sincerely hoping for a quiet and relatively empty checkpoint, but for one reason or another, it seemed to be bustling with activity. A quick glance informed him that there were at least three platoons present, each bearing a separate heraldry, and all armed to the teeth.

Great. He just walked right into a session for international negotiations.

While he was still beyond the vision of the nearest troops, he managed to scrunch out his torn-and now very worn- map. Luckily for him, he could make out just enough of the heraldries to figure out where they were from: Celestia, Alistel, and Cygnus. Suffice to say, security was going to be tight; Dullahan hoped that he didn't look suspicious enough to warrant getting himself into trouble.

Unfortunately for him, he was rounded up by two members of the border patrol almost immediately.

"State your business..." one hissed, eyeing Dullahan from head to toe, then spat on the sand next to them. Dullahan eyed the guard's armband- pure white; possibly representing neutral border guards. "... Tch. It's a damn Cygnan. You with the lot?" the guard pointed a thumb at the Cygnan platoon behind him.

"No, actually. I just want to pass through. I have business in Granorg."

_"Ha._ Hear that? Says he wants to go to Granorg." The other guard chuckled in response.

"Hope you have papers."

Well, shit. That was something Dullahan _hadn't_ considered.

_"Normally,_ we would've let you go, you know? But we do have some big shots over there in the Fortress, so we've gotta buck it up. Wouldn't want this to be an international problem, right? You see where I'm going with this?"

Dullahan kept silent.

"Means you're _trespassing_under the Code of Summits. You get to meet all the bigwigs to explain yourself. Isn't that just fun?"

"... I reserve the right to self-represent, I hope," Dullahan said coolly, trying to calm his anxiety and not flip out. He could easily break free of these two, sure, but that would mean summoning the wrath of three entire platoons at his face, and tighter border security.

And thin out his chances of slipping into Granorg.

The guard seemed annoyed when Dullahan did not bend to his authority, and swiftly ran a steel gauntleted fist across the trespasser's face.

* * *

_Hey._

Dullahan winced at the voice; it was far too loud, and far too close for comfort. Much like it was being spoken in his head.

_What are you?_

He scrambled his thoughts in an attempt to find an answer. He had none. He did, however, concluded that it was the voice of a little girl. The last time he remembered a voice in his head, it was nowhere as high pitched as this one.

He waited for the voice to say something again, but it never came.

* * *

The thick stench of urea and iron drove him awake, bringing with it a massive headache. His hand reached up to his temples where the guard hit him, and he made contact with caked blood as a reward. He let out an unwilling groan, and he heard footsteps coming in his direction.

He turned, addressing the jailer with a nod; and the jailer nodded in return.

"Sorry about the head. Some of the fresh recruits were from Granorg, see, and they didn't get along well with Cygnans." Dullahan eyed the jailer; he couldn't possibly be over twenty years old. Mighty young for the post... He was under the impression that only those who garnered full trust from the top could be one; the one he had regular drinks with back home- the manorial jailer- was well into his late forties… and packed with an indomitable will, to boot.

Unless this young chap was part of the war effort.

"You're up in two hours with the council. It might be a bit intimidating at first, but I assure you that you're in good hands," the jailer said with a smile. "Just let them know what you've gone through, and they'll let you out in no time. ... Well, because you're not the first case, mostly."

Quite a chatterbox, isn't he?

"... Hey. Have we met somewhere?"

Dullahan's eyebrow raised, but shrugged.

"Oh well. Just give me a holler once you're done with the council- they'll probably release you on the spot." He tipped his bandana. "I'll get you a drink. The name's Kiel, by the way."

Dullahan returned the gesture in addition to a small smile, and set to work on planning his negotiations with the council.


	5. Chapter 5

The headache proved fatal to his brainstorming session, as his mind periodically chose to blank out and stare into space. He had considered passing himself off as a simple Cygnan traveler, but the chances were that the council was probably attended by a Cygnan representative. In all honesty, his own confusion and migraine stopped him from thinking of any other alternative aside from telling the truth: that he wasn't from Vainqueur.

He shuddered to think of the possible responses from the council.

Dullahan shifted slightly closer towards the hallway within his cell, huddling his cloak closer. He'd consumed half of the ale Kiel provided; the other half was spent washing his head wound.

Yet somehow, the stench of blood lingered on still.

_It's the bars,_ he reassured himself. _They're iron. They're similar, but they're not the same. Your mind's playing tricks with you._

He refrained from asking for more liquor; this moment would pass. He was _sure_ of it. He couldn't risk himself walking into the council meeting half-drunk. He needed to be sober, and he needed his brains to think.

Somehow, his brain was being _overly _active at this juncture, much to his own dismay.

_No__._ There were no corpses at the other corner. _No, I'm not going over there to confirm that._

He reached for his bow, usually slung across his shoulder. He made contact with thin air, instead. The border patrol took his possessions. Fair enough, but _totally not something he appreciated right now._

Dullahan was no longer looking at the empty parchment before him- he was staring at the darkness of the cell, terror gripping at his every jittering move.

* * *

Kiel quietly brooded over his desk, still unable to figure out where he had met the man before. There was an odd feeling of _deja vu_, but not quite- but that could be applied to pretty much all the memories he retained from during the war. Back then, still a fresh recruit, he could remember clearly that he was assigned to a brigade under the now-revered General Rosch.

The details on his first assignment and all subsequent events, however, was generally shut out from him. The most confusing one being that he actually _remembered dying_. But somehow, he was still here. That did wonders to sober himself up and stop being overly childish. God, the nightmares.

He did voice his concerns with Dr. Sonja, though, and she had reassured him that quite a few people have had this off-feeling ever since _'__the Event'_ three years ago- a top-secret Alistel project that involved Granorg. Well, at least he thought it was.

Well, _the Event_ was, after all, the major subject of tension between the two nations. There were drunken theories running about, claiming that _the Event_ was probably some continent-wide manipulation of mana, especially those focusing on memories- but top guns from almost every field couldn't find evidence to support the rumours; and thus they remained as rumours.

"Mrrrrrrr," Kiel's forehead collided with the desk, throwing the desk lamp into a slight flicker. Sure, he didn't need to mull over it, but something at the back of his mind told him that _this_ particular feeling of familiarity was _important_. Could be someone who he liked very much, someone he looked up to- "oh, _I don't know_," he whined defeatedly.

Kiel's train of thoughts was stopped abruptly, however, when suspicious sounds emanated from the prisoner's cell.

As much as he'd like to give the prisoner a benefit of doubt, Kiel reached for his blade as he stepped down the hallway to investigate.

"Heather, _where are you!_" the voice- the prisoner's- was shaken, and confusingly so.

Kiel quickened his pace, not bothering with his sword, as he stepped into the cell's view.

* * *

Who was he kidding? He was in a fortress dungeon, rich with the history of war. Of course he was going to be having nightmares. Getting thrown into a cell _here, of all places_ was the last thing on his itinerary. He had such confidence in Heather that he literally _waltzed straight into the Sand Fortress_. The _fuck_ was he thinking? Trying to relive the idea that yes, he's an unchecked murderer, burning down villages, getting his own brigade killed, and ordered the massacre of unwilling civilians? A traitor who abandoned his own lord?

All of whom were eager to see him dead? Eager to tear him apart, the moment he wasn't watching? When he direly needed sleep? When he was with his friends and family?

_Heather can change that, but she isn't here._

It was true that he haven't heard from Heather since he found himself on this unknown continent. He should've been more suspicious and more careful- but he now knew that he was all alone.

Alone with those imaginary eyes staring at him from the shadows- he knew _very well_ that they were imaginary, a product of his imbecilic thoughts- ready to swallow him whole.

There was a loud banging of metal hinges, and Dullahan felt himself being lifted to his feet, and dragged out of the cell- and away from the nightmares.

* * *

Kiel hadn't expected the man to be a war veteran, but there he was, showing every sign of being one.

His brief internship with Dr. Sonja before being transferred back into the armed divisions gave the young jailer all the exposure he needed to deal with post-war soldiers- and it was never pretty. Sure, he was no expert in medicine, but he could probably calm the prisoner down, somewhat.

It was against protocol to get someone out of their cells unauthorised, but he knew he was doing the right thing.

Kiel made the older man sit next to the desk, pouring some fresh water from his personal keg- something rare and treasured this far away from Alistel (courtesy of General Rosch during his last visit). He shoved the mug into the prisoner's hands, making sure he took a drink, before eyeing him warily.

It was a few, long minutes before they made eye contact. "... Sorry, I need to get out of here," the prisoner- Dullahan, was it?- said, swallowing uncomfortably as he wiped away at his sweaty palms and face into a fistful of his cloak.

"Yeah, I know," Kiel said carefully, eyeing the corridors and stretching his ears to hear for any activity upstairs- nothing out of the ordinary. Thankfully he was the only man on duty down here this afternoon; otherwise, he would've had to wiggle his way out of explaining this to his colleagues and superior. Which was _also_ never pretty.

_... Yeah, this guy's not the Sergeant,_ Kiel thought, slightly bemused before stopping himself. Which sergeant?

Nevertheless, Kiel followed the prisoner's gaze everywhere- and carefully kept his weapon out of the other's reach. "Just hang on a while more; you're up next with the council. Just think about that, nothing else." Kiel gave a childish grin, hoping to lighten the prisoner's mood.

* * *

As his nightmares began to subside, his sane mind re-emerged, insistently shoving the idea of breaking out at his face. _What, and be ungrateful? How low can you get?_ Dullahan frowned.

The hour of the council meeting could not come sooner.


	6. Chapter 6

The large, oaken door slid to a close behind him, shutting him in with the council. Dullahan's even, measured steps brought him before three seated parties- representatives of their respective nations, he assumed. One of them wore clothes that he was all-too-familiar with by now; the full ceremonial plate of an officer, the crest of Alistel engraved into an ornate, scarf clasp. He knew this man's face from artisans' images of him all across the mechanical city; he was Prime Minister Raul.

The man on Raul's left dressed quite similarly as Dullahan did; a large cloak, a bandana across his head- signs of a desert traveller, dark and brooding. What the Cygnan representative held underneath his cloak, however, was largely different; Dullahan spotted a minimum of three knives.

Across from the Cygnan representative was an entirely opposite image: an adult woman stood next to a young girl, flipping through the papers on her behalf. The girl's eyes were glued to him. The most noteable trait about the two ladies were the fact that they had horns on their heads, and pointed ears.

_Beastkind._

"Greetings to you, Prime Minister. You have my apologies for the trouble." Dullahan bowed his head slightly, addressing only the man at the center stage. _Address the council chairman. Appease him; he has the casting vote._

Raul's hand made a swatting movement, as if to dismiss the trouble. "It's alright. Quite a good thing, actually! You're helping us kill time while Granorg's representatives arrive," the governor said cheerfully. "Hope _you_ don't mind, having to entertain this old git." His Cygnan counterpart was unentertained, his piercing gaze threatening to debunk any lies Dullahan may come up with.

_He could tell I wasn't one of them._

"So... Before you begin, I'm obliged to let you know we've been through your possessions," Raul started, clasping his hands together on the desk. "And we have some questions that we think you might care to answer first."

Dullahan watched as Raul bent sideways to retrieve a few objects, setting them gently on the table. Dullahan pretended to peer in and get a closer look, but he knew those objects all too well; travelling cheques, copper mints, a few rare silver, and guild recommendation letters. His home currencies.

The other object, however, was not familiar to him until recently, but retrospectively, may have been the source of all of his misfortune.

The black book.

As Dullahan's mind raced for a plausible response, he heard the creaking of chairs and the unsheathing of blades. "Do think carefully about your answer, Mr. Dullahan- or we may have to kill you."

* * *

Aht had told Raul and Garland earlier about the peculiar nature of their new prisoner, but they hadn't paid much heed to it. After all, they were all busy with preparing for Eru- _Queen_ Eruca's arrival; their attention span had been filled with complicated things like logistics, management, and other stuff that humans seem to make a fuss about. Like ale and banquets and whatnot.

Slipping away from Elm's watchful eye as she was distracted, Aht managed to sneak into the dungeons to take a look- and the cute little human guard let her in!- and confirm her suspicions first-hand.

She wiped at her eyes, as if expecting her eyesight to have gone wrong. _Vainqueur is a world governed by Mana,_ Aht reminded herself. _Everything- everything has it. Rocks, trees, people. Everything._

But the unconscious prisoner _had no Mana._ No flow, no signs of blockage or restrictions, either; just... no Mana.

A living human that did not turn to sand even if his Mana had been depleted.

_... What are you?_

Aht took a step back, head spinning with the new revelations. She turned and ran back upstairs.

_Elm. I've gotta tell Elm._

* * *

Things moved surprisingly quicker after Aht alerted Elm, and they managed to convince Raul to look through the prisoner's belongings.

There was nothing out of the ordinary with his weapon- a simple bow, standard-issue and available for purchase from one of the local smithies in Alistel. The map was also a mass-produced one, available off the shelf from any well-stocked grocer.

Everything else was a confusing mess.

First was his money. There were a few Alistellan coins, but many were of an unknown source. The heraldries did not even bear the markings of the Vainqueur Alliance's new, proposed prototype mint.

The second was a different map entirely- one that did not depict Vainqueur. They shared the same symbolic conventions as Vainqueur's maps, but none of the names of towns, villages, and cities, rang any bell with the Satyros, nor the Prime Minister.

Third was the Black Chronicle.

* * *

Dullahan took a deep breath, willing his headache to go away. Though the Satyros woman's blade was drawn, and the Cygnan representative looked eager to draw blood, they were held back by the sheer need for more information out of him.

In his short lifetime of twenty-nine years, he had attended court occasions for the last four years before his betrayal- and managing stressful relations was one of the things he unfortunately picked up all too well.

"... Let's exchange intelligence," Dullahan began, his eyes trained onto Raul- nobody else in the room mattered._ Persuade the leader, and the rest will follow._ Raul shrugged, indicating that he was listening. The blades, however, did not lower. No surprises there.

"I am Dullahan. I was a knight serving Lord Spencer in the Solstice Wars in Alanborough," the blond eyed their responses, making no sudden movements as he spoke. Raul frowned visibly; the Cygnan snorted in disbelief; and the ladies patiently waited for him to continue. "... But I'm assuming that means nothing to you."

A nod in confirmation from Raul across the room, and Dullahan continued.

"I discovered the book in a crown-sponsored dig. The next thing I knew, I was here. This was three weeks ago." He paused. "If this book has any significance to you, then I know none of it."

"And you're implying you know nothing about Vainqueur? That's absurd!" the older Satyros hissed with malice. Dullahan looked at her briefly.

"I'm _expressing_ it, good lady."

The little girl- commanding a surprisingly unyielding authority- raised a hand in front of her assistant, and became the only thing stopping the older Satyros from cutting him down. While he had no knowledge in Satyros hierarchy, he saw that they bore similarity with other tribes of his homeland; she was likely a revered spiritual leader amongst a superstitious community.

He turned his attention back to Raul. "I know no one on this continent. I have no witnesses or accounts as to my credibility. And if you really need to know my motive for crossing the borders into Granorg..." he paused. Should he get Raynie and Marco involved? Probably not.

"... I heard that they have an extensive library, which meant there's a higher chance of me finding a way home. I'm just a lost man, nothing more.

To believe my tales or not, however, is entirely your call, Prime Minister."

Dullahan made no move to back down from his stare with the Alistellan head. To back down was to imply that he was lying; and that would've meant death.

The little girl raised herself from her chair out of the corner of his eyes- and he could almost feel her eyes boring into his soul. She moved her lips.

"So... What are you? Do you have an answer?"

Dullahan could not help but smile at the question, and recognising the source of the mysterious voice. "I'm only human, child."

* * *

It took Raul a while to consider and accept his offer, but Dullahan was thankful that he did. The moment the Prime Minister laid down the ground rules of no violence, the Cygnan and Celestians sheathed their blades, and quietly settled down... much to Dullahan's relief.

They took the next few hours sharing information on the two realms, and Dullahan was now in greater clarity of the situation he was in than before. The Sand Fortress summit was called in order to further discussions on what transpired upon the conclusion of the war, three years ago in Vainqueur.

Mana, as a concept, was now being painstakingly explained to him by the little lady- Aht. As far as Dullahan was concerned, there was no such thing as Mana back home. Dullahan's skeptic nature reared its ugly head as he folded his arms before him, trying hard to give the concept a benefit of doubt. Aht's helpful lecture came with small demonstrations on mid-air combustion and other trinkets, however; and that, in turn, made him consider whether they were sharing the same world at all. Just what_ sorcery_ was this? (to which, the little lady replied, _was essentially sorcery.__)_

The existence of this element of Mana in Vainqueur was possibly the main reason behind all of the technological disparities he noted, which were far beyond what his own civilisation could offer to their own people.

Raul's diplomatic nature could be seen from the way he kept Dullahan's belongings out of reach, combined with his constant engagement with Dullahan to keep him distracted- was, Dullahan admitted, one of the finest ways to keep a man rooted in negotiations.

One bit of lore that interested Dullahan, however, was on the desertification. There was a minor scuffle that had broken out on the topic; when Aht was stomping her foot on the ground, trying to convince Raul to stop the use of thaumatech completely. Raul- and surprisingly, the Cygnan- had argued that thaumatech was their way of life, in light of the harsh weather conditions that Alistel and Cygnus were situated in. Where Alistel focused on keeping its hearths warm, Cygnus was using the same technology for aqueducts, mills, and keeping the weather bearable for its citizens.

Dullahan also picked up from the scuffle the sense of ego that Alistel clung to- the idea that thaumatech was the identity of the nation- was one of the major things stopping them from abandoning the technology. Well, that, and…

"We're not asking for much, Aht," Raul said, exasperated by the subject topic. Dullahan guessed that they must have had similar conversations in the past, but to no known resolution. "Just provide us with undeniable proof that thaumachine's part of the problem, and we'll work on resolving it. You can't just order us to stop _for no apparent reason_."

Aht fumed. "I'm telling you the reason _right now_! It's thaumatech! The ore! You remove it from the earth, you rob it of Mana! Desertification! Simple!" The little girl bit her lip. Dullahan could tell she was upset, but as to the full extent _why_ she was upset, he had not a clue.

"You're putting Granorg's preservation efforts to waste, humans," the woman said, her gaze stopping briefly on every human in the room- Dullahan included. "Queen Eruca painstakingly stopped signs of desertification from worsening three years ago, and you essentially restarted the entire process. And now you're demanding for _evidence_ before you act? You humans are absurd."

The Cygnan scowled at the Satyros's remark, not impressed by the condescending way the situation was being phrased. "Elm. We've already talked about this." The man's voice was deep, the tone verberating through the enclosed room. "Prove it to us, and we'll stop using thaumatech. You can't expect both Alistel and Cygnus to drop support for our citizens."

"Which also raises the question- what _did_ Granorg do? If it was really that miraculous, I propose for Granorg- and Celestia, for that matter- to release more information on this anti-desertification effort to the Alliance. It's better for us to be in the loop as well to help out, no?" Raul added, eyeing the two Satyros, who had grown oddly quiet on the subject.

Ah. The _Event_ that the Alistellan taverns were abuzz about.

"So, what _is _the _Event__?"_ Dullahan inquired, genuinely curious. He threw a glance at the Satyros, and they immediately avoided his eye contact. He raised an eyebrow. "We don't know for sure," Raul voiced, his slight irritation at the subject showing, "Granorg has been very tight-lipped about it. That's what we've been working on."

"While the continent wastes away? I see that you are very efficient."

"We try."

The conversation moved on. The general consensus between the nations was that the desertification was a natural occurrence, and the rediscovery of certain plants acting as Mana fertilisers for the soil were currently being focused on as a field of heavily invested research. Dullahan eyed the Satyros duo again. ... They were being awfully quiet, leaving the Cygnan and the Allistellan motormouth to speak on their behalf on the subject.

What had Marco said again?

_"Currently there are two factions within the Alliance, so we Alistel are in agreement with Cygnus, and Celestia is siding with Granorg," Marco noted._

"... Speaking of which, where is the Granorgnite representative?" Dullahan opined off-handedly, which paused all the debates happening in the room.

"Is the queen going to skip this summit, too?" the Cygnan spat. "This alliance is never going to last the 50 years, Raul. Mark my words."

_If you have 50 years, gentlemen,_ Dullahan noted, realising then that the biggest threat to Vainqueur wasn't the desertification- but the nations' collective passivism and inaction to resolve the desertification.


End file.
